The sound curled through the tunnel walls, a long, metallic groan that vibrated inside my ribs. It wasn't a natural sound.
I pressed my back against the cold concrete, my breath locked inside my throat. My fingers tightened around the wrench, the cold metal slick with sweat. The rats had fled, but their stink still clung to the air, a rancid mix of piss, decay, and something else—something wrong.
I forced myself forward. Every muscle in my body ached, the weight of the last few days pressing down on me like lead. I was running on fumes, on instinct, on some primal will to survive that felt more and more like a curse.
The glow of artificial light pulsed faintly ahead, seeping through the skeletal remains of the tunnel like an open wound. Voices.
I stopped.
People.
